Lists and Lost Translations
by wilma.de.worde
Summary: Ficlet One-off. John has kept a number of lists: small proof of Sherlock's true nature. They do little to ease his grief and loneliness. A companion piece of sorts to 'Standard Issue'. (JohnLock; pre- and post-Reichenbach with a tiny bit of Empty Hearse; established relationship; TW for thoughts of suicide and mental illness.)


He's started a list. John likes lists. Lists bring a hint of stability to the circus that is his life. He keeps this one hidden in the book on his side of the bed, tucked in the middle like a bookmark. What does Sherlock always say? If you want to hide something well, leave it in plain sight?

_Tea_

_Coffee (sweet)_

_Sprouts (sautéed)_

He adds to it frequently, a daily tally of this oft-ignored aspect of Sherlock's life. Proof that he knows the detective better than the remainder of the world. Proof the man is human. One of the few memories of their time in Belgium that doesn't cause his cheeks to turn red whilst in polite company.

_Jaffa cakes_

_More Jaffa cakes_

_All of the Jaffa cakes he can find_

His grocery list. His secret arsenal. His last resort on late, rainy nights when Sherlock is too manic to sleep and John's too hungry to give him what he wants right away. A truce Sherlock will never realise he made.

_Milk. Especially when we're running low (intentional?) _

_Swedes_

_Beans and toast (sometimes; need more data)_

John doesn't feel guilty for his bit of spying; it's for Sherlock's own good. Sherlock will probably find it quite amusing if he ever finds out. Berk.

_Any kind of curry_

_Chips_

_Possibly more chips than Jaffa cakes _

He's growing suspicious, though. Too many stops at the takeaway with his favourite naan, too many evenings tempting him with strawberries and sweets. John can spot the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight furrow of his brow. He's indulging in John's game, waiting for him to give himself away. John refuses to do that. He feigns chagrin when Sherlock accuses him of altruism. It's easier to act polite than to admit that he's hell-bent on taking care of the man whether he likes it or not.

_Anything pasta_

_Anything fruit_

_Anything on my plate_

But isn't that what he's always done? Isn't it his favourite thing to do? They have a long time ahead of them to spend together, and Sherlock is going to be there for every moment of it. John's very insistent about that.

* * *

Sherlock is electric storms and flash flood cautions, sudden and dangerous and poised for explosion. He is a force of nature, tectonic plates, intermittent showers and soft, summer rain. He is every danger in North End his mother warned him about, every kiss stolen under the playground slide, Kandahar and Otterburn and home.

He joined the army to stave off the monotony of suburbia, the threat of a life of Tesco and church and trimming the verge. He stayed a doctor because he wanted to help people and feel blood on his hands again. But Sherlock-

Sherlock makes him whole.

_Gemütlichkeit_, Sherlock calls it one night, their legs entwined and breathing almost back to normal. John doesn't understand it, but he can feel it in his toes, the word swirling over Sherlock's tongue like it belongs there forever. Sherlock smiles sweetly and shrugs. _That's what you are to me, John. That's what it feels like._

Sherlock is warm hands on cold nights, sweet kisses by the fire and sharp teeth in the dark. The primal fear of the jungle at night. Fond memories and buried wishes and breathless, sweaty dreams. Brother and lover and comrade in arms. Sherlock is everything he didn't realise he wanted and needs, sutures to his healing wounds, epoxy sealing his many cracks. Sherlock is poetry and prose and cosmic radiation.

Sherlock is his soul.

* * *

John begins another list, tucking it into his monthly subscription of _Rugby World_, safe from prying eyes.

_**Sides of Sherlock No One Else Has Seen (except maybe Sherr)**_

_Crying_

_Laughing - Uncontrollable_

_Sleeping_

_Nicking Jaffa cakes (note to self: buy more.)_

_Admitting insecurities_

_Pouting_

_Cuddling (but he still won't call it that. Git.)_

_Swearing_

_Shagged out (hopefully Sherrinford hasn't seen that…)_

_Gasping for it (see above)_

It's a close call one afternoon when Greg stops by and is waiting for John to change into a jumper that hasn't been recently ruined with hydrochloric acid. John hops off the bottom stair just in time to snatch the bit of notebook paper from the floor between Greg's feet and stuff it in his back pocket.

As much as he wishes everyone else knew how kind and loyal and fragile Sherlock can be, there's a part of him that must admit how much he loves keeping the real Sherlock a secret. John thinks of it often as Sherlock swirls around crime scenes, all billowing wool and drama and insults like guided missiles. He watches and smiles, picturing coming home and sliding his fingers into raven curls, the world's only consulting detective curling up at his feet like a contented cat and nuzzling into his leg.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning. He doesn't know how.

The bed beside him is rumpled and empty. For the briefest of moments, he finds himself wondering if he's already awake, strains his ears for the familiar sound of Vivaldi in the sitting room or soft explosions eroding their kitchen table. Nothing. Never again. A single dark hair rests on the pillow beside him, a slender crescent staining the white cotton. He can't bring himself to brush it away.

The room is freezing. He'd fallen asleep with his jacket on.

John closes his eyes, his fingers resting on the last vestige of those silken curls. A strangled sob rises up in his throat.

* * *

He doesn't hide this list. There isn't a need to; he can't bring himself to write it down. He can hardly bring himself to say his name. He sits in Ella's office and stares at her as she makes lengthy notes about _depression _and _relapse _and _abandonment issues_ and he thinks about the list. A thousand hypocrisies and conflicting evidence. Charts and graphs his mind has created that leave him with more mysteries than answers. He wishes he could sit him down and present his case. He wants to slap him and hold him and weep against him and shove the list into his hands. After every examination, the paper in his mind is smeared and crumbled, his shaky hand scrawling the same phrase a hundred times over.

_How could you leave me?_

* * *

He's been trying for months to find the word. Some part of him remembers it from a long time ago, from some whispered conversation on a warm, happy night. Some strange word, it would have sounded wrong if it weren't for the scratchy baritone, honey dripping from plump, pink lips. He'd loved that word. He wishes he could remember it now, call it back with the new recollections of skin and sweat and long fingers stroking his bath-warmed thigh. Wishes he could taste it - taste _him _-sugar and coffee and furtive cigarettes. Salt copper want filling his senses and anchoring him.

He wishes he could remember it, could speak it with his slow, untutored tongue in the long, sleepless nights. He wants to fill his bedsit with the sound, wants to close his eyes and trick his mind into believing that it isn't his voice, isn't his hand under the covers. Perhaps if he can accomplish this, it will suddenly be true. The last year will have never happened, and he'll wake up in his own bed again, smelling fresh croissants from Speedy's, hearing Mrs Hudson's telly, thin arms around his belly and sharp nose pressed to his vertebra prominens.

He's thought about discussing this with Ella, seeking some kind of advice for this continued lapse in memory. The rest of it has come back (and, god, had he _wanted_ it to? Would it not have been better to forget forever, to wonder and puzzle and never know? It hurts so much to know), so why not this? It's such a small thing; it should have come back. He's thought about asking, but he's too certain he knows what she'll say: he can't remember the word because he hasn't felt like that since it happened. He'll never feel like that again.

* * *

He hadn't gone to Mikhail's for the ring. He knows he could've found something better if he had; he has no doubts about that. But Mikhail's shop belongs to a collection of sites in and around London that his mind has coloured with dark X's and yellow police tape.

_Angelo's. _

_Mikhail's. _

_The park by the pond. _

_That fish and chip shop-why can't I remember the name?-the one still open at odd hours with that beer in the batter, the place we'd find ourselves in after long cases when he swore he wasn't hungry and I swore I'd leave him if he didn't eat._

The places that belong to Sherlock, to John-and-Sherlock, but never just to John. Those places aren't a part of his life anymore.

He can't go to those spots, can't stand the pitying looks or the confusion his solo appearances always bring about. Can't stand the idea of searching for Mary's ring while Mikhail peers over the counter and wonders as he fiddles with the chain on his belt loop. Nervous habit; nothing to feel guilty about. It's his watch, after all. Has been for most of three years. If Mary thinks he should wear it, there isn't any harm. The weight feels good against his leg. Feels like home. Feels like it belongs.

He refuses to think about it. A watch from a friend. Nothing strange about that.

* * *

Mary is by far the most considerate flatmate he has ever had, although she doesn't have much competition in that area. The flat is always tidy and relatively quiet. He has yet to find undergarments over the radiators or body parts in the fridge. She's happy to fix dinner from time to time and he's happy to return the favour. She makes him laugh. There's no cause for complaint from the neighbours when they have a row. Their love is steadfast and soothing, but never dull. The sex is fantastic. When John thinks about it, he's certain that this is what others refer to as 'domestic bliss'.

Naturally, his anxiety is running at warp speed.

He hates to admit that Mycroft might be right. It goes against everything he believes in to do so. That does nothing to change the fact that John is unsuited for the quiet stability he now finds himself to have. He feels antsy and uneasy, his face falling whenever he hears a passing police siren or a car backfiring outside their neat little flat and he realises it has nothing to do with him. His restlessness has only increased with Sherlock's reappearance. He still races for the door and Baker Street at the slightest request from his phone, but there's no denying things have changed. Of course they've changed; why didn't he expect that?

Two years of nothing. Silence and sorrow and loneliness. Acting reckless and ignoring calls and starving himself of anything that might be deemed healthy or healing. He isn't proud of his behaviour, but he didn't care at the time. He'd thought it would be better to disappear, to die like he'd died. At least then he wouldn't be alone.

But here he is: alive and intact. And things are going so well. He'd scooped up the pieces of his shattered life and glued them back together. It isn't perfect, of course, but it's better; everything is so much better. He has hope. He has Mary. He thinks he might feel almost whole again one day.

And then _he'd_ appeared, materialising from thin air, sauntering up to his table in much the same way he'd sauntered into his life. Brash and brilliant and completely infuriating, and unaware that crashing engagements and almost getting them blown up and pretending to be dead for two bloody, awful, miserable, goddamn unstable years was quite a lot more than _a bit not good_.

John's blood boils at the thought. He's forgiven Sherlock; of course he has. He'd forgive Sherlock anything just for being alive again. That doesn't change the fact that the man's timing was bloody awful. That doesn't change the two years of silence and grief and realisation that everything he ever wanted lay dead in the ground in a nearby-_too close_-church yard.

He'd forgotten all of it in the wake of Sherlock's death. His mind had taken the time to build up walls and doors with impenetrable locks and for so many months he'd known only the loss of his best, most cherished friend. He wandered the flat as if in a dream, wondering why his old dog tags weren't with the rest of his gear. He'd had no idea how he'd come to have an old but gleaming pocket watch, but he couldn't stop himself from hooking the chain to his jeans every morning. When he'd finally moved out-sick to death of Mrs Hudson's pitying smile and the inexplicable ache in his chest every morning provided-he'd still felt an odd suspicion that he was missing some crucial piece of the puzzle.

He has yet to decide if he's happy his memory came flooding back, stirred into action by a vibrant, sweat-scented dream of needful baritone and exploding stars. The scattered remnants clicked into place and he had wept anew for everything he had forgotten he'd lost. The second burial of those recollections had been intentional, a practicality. He'd had perfection-saccharine and sentimental as it may be, there was no other word to describe it. He knew there would never be anything close to it no matter how long he lived. But Sherlock was gone-dead-and he wasn't, much as he'd willed himself to be. There would always be an ache, but he had to keep going. He had to keep _living_. Mary had reminded him of that. Sweet, lovely, shelter-in-the-storm Mary had taken his hand with a squeeze and a playful smirk and led him toward the horizon. It wasn't perfect, but, god, it was good.

And then bloody perfect walked through the fucking door.

God, how he'd missed him.

He shakes his head. These aren't the things he should be thinking about. That isn't his life anymore. That will never be his life again.


End file.
